The Wrongness of November
by lyin
Summary: They laid James Potter in state without his glasses, and the autumnal color scheme of the flowers clashed horrendously with Lily's hair. And there is nothing Remus Lupin can do, about even the little things. Early November, 1981. (a short oneshot).


_A/N: An old piece of mine, forgotten in an old doc, and then more recently posted on my Tumblr: for some reason (perhaps because I had no real title, and also because I was trying to update Glass of Water first but that took longer than I thought) I never got it up on my proper account here. __For some reason when trying to write Remus' point of view the cadence of certain W.B. Yeats poems I have memorized slipped in. See poems "Easter 1916" and "Under Ben Bulben" for some of the inspiration source or for the very smallest of language Easter Eggs, or just for strong and beautiful words (on life, on death...). _

_I think a lot about Remus Lupin in early November of 1981, but this is the only writing about him, at that time, I believe I have ever done._

* * *

They laid James Potter in state without his glasses.

James would have been in a state if he knew about it, thought Remus. Without them James' features looked stunningly boyish, all of seventeen maybe, and his nose looked longer than ever. To Remus' shock, for the first time he could remember he could see James' scalp. Someone had cleaved a path down the middle of his messy black hair, which Remus guessed was what a part looked like on James, and matted the hair down until it looked like a shiny pelt.

Padfoot wouldn't have stood for it, if he was here. He'd have put his foot down and thrown a wild-eyed, desperate fit till something was done about the fixable but meaningless little things, anything to quell the surge of impossible wrongness. But Padfoot, it seemed to Remus, no longer existed, if he ever had. Sirius Black, traitor and murderer, had been carted away to Azkaban choking on his own laughter. And he, Remus, hardly had the energy for such a fit, much less the willingness to draw attention to himself.

Without his friends around, he no longer felt like a Gryffindor. He steered around Mrs. Pettigrew with careful cowardice. Remus' father, who had come with him, and was a kinder man than Remus believed he could ever even pretend to be, went up to her in his stead. Remus could see on Mrs. Pettigrew's lips, even from across the room, the words, "Order of Merlin, First Class," again and again and again, like a prayer.

Peter. It was very James of him, to have gone after Sirius himself, to not waste any time or risk any of his friends alongside him

(At least, Remus hoped that was why Peter had not come to him, not waited, even though Peter as he'd known him had always been quick to ask for help. Remus was haunted by whys.)

Peter had none of James' talents behind him, of course, but somehow he had channeled all that burning, near-stupid courage Remus had always so admired. And so envied.

Remus could not even summon the guts to stay in place when he saw Alice Longbottom coming towards him. There were condolences in her warm eyes and Frank behind her, their baby cozy in his arms. Remus blatantly dodged her approach. He sidled right out the side door and let Mundungus Fletcher loan him his pipe for a moment, until he felt ready to bear more of others' happiness, more of their relief behind the grief. But the Longbottoms were gone before he returned.

(He would see Alice and Frank again, though never as they were. Yet one more of Remus' regrets.)

It was a very small service. Bertha Jorkins, black quill up her sleeve, had been stopped at the door. The Minister and her Cabinet had not been allowed to come and shake hands, though some formal, public memorial was in the works. Remus supposed he would go to that, too, and there, too, stand in the back.

He saw his other friends, from school, and made polite, empty conversation. And he saw the members of the Order, what remained of them, who had fought at his back in dead of night, and made polite, somehow emptier conversation.

McGonagall, who had given him many comforting pats over the years, especially over the first year of walking him to the Willow, embraced him for the first time in his life. She seemed incapable of speech except to say, in a cracking voice, "Oh, Remus. Not Lily and James." All the other words, even Dumbledore's wise, pithy comments, on life, on death, went through him like a sieve. But that remained.

He went jerkily up to the front again, feeling the need for one more look before the coffins closed. Lily and James still did not look themselves, and despite what everyone kept saying, did not look like they were sleeping. Seven years in the same dormitory, Remus knew how James Potter slept: not quietly.

There was no color in Lily's cheeks, none of the brightness that made her beautiful left about her. They had not quite gotten the traces of fear out of her face. She was harder than James to even look upon.

While the small speeches began, from Lily and James' "closest friends," Remus stayed in the back, with his father. He loaned Hagrid his handkerchief but did not cry himself. He was too occupied trying not to notice how the autumnal color scheme of the flowers, with its brutal orange, clashed horrendously with Lily's red hair.

Later, when he was finally home alone, it was the wrongness of the flowers that made the tears come. The flowers, and James' glasses, wherever they'd gone.


End file.
